Hazard Pay
by House Calls
Summary: Some patients are just too much. A two part drabble.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _House _or any pop stars, twenty-something or otherwise. This story was ultimately meant to entertain, hence no specific pop stars have been mentioned. It could really go for any . . . enthusiastic fan group. ;-)

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"So what else has led you to the conclusion you are clinically insane?" Dr. Gregory House asked the middle-aged woman seated on the exam table. He never let his gaze waver, his expression remaining serious, as he sat on the stool across from her while resting both his hands on top of his cane.

_Wilson was never going to believe this patient was for real. _

The brown-haired woman's mouth opened and closed several times, but nothing came out. Which, comparatively speaking, was bliss. She had prattled on about the pop star whose face was emblazoned on her T-shirt, handbag, and earrings for so long, House knew more about him than he did Wilson.

"I know, I know," House said, nodding his head as he looked down briefly to hide a grin. "You didn't use those exact words. But you did say you are deaf, have been for years, but can hear some kid when he sings. Never mind the fact your attire shows you really do have too much time on your hands, which, coincidentally, can cause a person to go insane. Boredom, devil's workshop, all that jazz." House shrugged his shoulders before pulling himself up and heading toward the door. "By the way," he said, not turning around, "pretty boy is a liar – he's not afraid of commitment."

"What! He is not – a liar, I mean! He is the most honest, truthful, upright and noble young man ever to walk --"

"And," House interjected as he turned back around, "you are a big fat liar. Here's a prescription," he continued, whipping out his prescription pad and a pen. "Get a real life. Give to a local charity, talk to your husband, pet a cat – I don't care what. Just accept that a twenty-something pop star with the memory of a gnat is never going to pay any attention to you other than when he's giving a physical description of his stalker to the police." House ripped off the piece of paper he had jotted down the main thrust of his argument on with an extra notation and handed it to the woman. He had just opened the door when she spoke up once more.

"But doctor, I already knew he is allergic to nuts."

"Great!" House replied, looking at her over his shoulder. "Then you'll definitely want to stay away from him." He turned back around and left the room, calling out to Dr. Lisa Cuddy as she passed the reception desk.

"I need to talk to you about hazard pay," House said, lowering his voice to a dramatic whisper. "I'm allergic to stupid people, yet I'm being forced to interact with them on a daily basis. I think my boss is out to get me."

Cuddy said nothing. She only looked at House like he was a petulant childwho was a hair's breadth away from going to his room without any supper. He grinned, which led to an exaggerated rolling of the eyes from Cuddy and a bonus deep breath as she (he was sure of it) began to silently count to ten.

Perhaps today wasn't going to be such a terrible day after all. Whistling _Hey Jude_ House made his way to his office.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hazard Pay, Pt. II **

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _House_ or anything associated with the show, other than my enjoyment of it. I also don't own any crazy fans, but I am sometimes amused by them.

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There were many things Dr. Gregory House could block out. Stupid people. Background noise of most any sort. The impatient sighs of his boss. Anything which did not interest him. But one thing his ear was always subconsciously attuned to was the sound of high heels clicking on the floor. Because as he had learned over the years (the past six in particular) it was a sound which meant trouble was coming his way.

So even though he was mere seconds away from victory on his Gameboy, House shut the red toy off and slid it across the cafeteria table to Dr. James Wilson, who had joined him for lunch, as the familiar clicking sound approached.

"Hide Gary for me," he said quietly before picking up Wilson's discarded newspaper and flipping it open.

"You name your toys?" Wilson asked. House could hear him turn the Gameboy on.

"I told you to _hide_ him. And you don't?" Wilson only chuckled in reply before saying hello to Dr. Lisa Cuddy, the Dean of Medicine at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, as she came to a stop behind House.

"You. My office. Now." Cuddy's tone brooked no argument.

"Why Dr. Cuddy," House said, lowering the newspaper as he turned around slightly in his seat, "it's a pleasure to see . . . you, as always." Cuddy's cheeks reddened slightly as she crossed her arms in front of her chest. "Whatever it is, couldn't it wait? You see, I put in a long morning in the clinic and am enjoying my moments of quiet solitude before having to face a sick and stupid public once more. So scram." House returned his attention to his paper, frowning when he felt Wilson kick him under the table. Kicking him back, House waited for Cuddy's sigh of defeat as she headed back to her office.

"Look," she said as she instead ripped the paper out of House's hands, "I don't know what you did and this is one time I don't care. But since Tuesday we have been receiving telephone calls, e-mails, and letters from people claiming you mistreated and slandered one of the clinic patients. And now a bunch of them are in the waiting room of the clinic, demanding to see you." Cuddy tossed the newspaper on the table. "Make them go away." And with that, she turned on her heel and strode briskly out of the cafeteria.

"I told you they would come after you," Wilson said as the sound of defeat emanated from House's Gameboy. Wilson handed it back to him.

"And I told you I didn't care," House replied, pocketing his toy as he grabbed his cane. "Besides, I've done some research. I know where their weak spots are." Pushing his chair back, he hoisted himself up and waited for Wilson to collect his now-ripped reading material.

"Twenty bucks says you can't make them leave in five minutes," said Wilson as they headed toward the clinic.

"Forty bucks says I can do it in four, and with at least one of them in tears." House stopped, switching his cane to his left hand so he could hold out his right hand to Wilson.

"You're on." Wilson grinned as he gave House's hand a firm shake with his own. Turning off his pager he headed toward the reception desk as House made his way over the group of women seated in the clinic's waiting area.

Surveying the six women seated before him, House decided one woman decked out in pop star-themed wear was infinitely better by comparison. Six in concert T-shirts, three with matching pins . . . House felt the Reuben he had at lunch flip over in his stomach.

"Do any of you have an actual medical problem?" he managed to ask with a straight face.

"No," one of the women stated firmly. Damn, she had two buttons and a purse with multiple pictures of the pop star House was sure he would hate on it. He dubbed her Extra Crazy. "You have spoken slanderously of a good and honest man," she huffed, "and one of his strongest supporters – all without really knowing him or his music." Another one of the women (dubbed Tiny Crazy, as she was shorter) handed Extra Crazy a jewel case which she in turn held out to House. "We're here to educate you on all things related to him so you can make a truly informed decision."

House squinted at Extra Crazy, not acknowledging the item she still held out toward him.

"Claybotomy!" he exclaimed, making at least half of the group jump slightly in their seats. "You have all had a Claybotomy, which would explain the garish clothing choices, irrational behaviour, and obsessive following of a celebrity. What, did you forget your Clozac? Or maybe you're on Clithium?" He glanced at a few of the faces, noticing with a grin a few of them had grown pale. "Or could it be your doctor prescribed a Clayectomy, but you have chosen to ignore his orders to get a life?" House smirked. Yes, the Internet was a wonderful research tool.

"See, this is what I mean," said Extra Crazy, her face reddening. "You show absolutely no respect --"

"What was that? I missed the part where I'm supposed to care," House interjected. "And you apparently missed the part where I implied you were all nuts, crazy, cuckoo – you know, insane." He shrugged his shoulders. "But don't worry. I can help you all because, after all, I took an oath."

Extra Crazy and Tiny Crazy exchanged looks with the other members of their group – The Crazies for short – before turning their bewildered gazes to House.

"The Hippocratic Oath?" Tiny Crazy tentatively offered.

"No, the Crazy People Oath," House said. He looked at his watch. "Unbeknownst to you, my colleague --" he nodded in the direction of Wilson, "has already called up a group of nice big burly men from the psych ward to haul you all in there and fill you up with all kinds of happy drugs – the aforementioned Clozac and Clithium along with some Clayopectate if the situation warrants. 'Cleenex' will be provided free of charge as we play the media's most constructive criticisms of your dear little pop star on a continual loop on a big screen TV. If all else fails we can hook you all up to the Internet which, sadly, can only access a web page which has the balls to take an _honest_ look at the guy." House paused, relishing the stunned silence. "If you're all still having problems, there is the word which makes my boss' day: 'Clawsuit'."

"We should be suing you for insulting us like this!" Extra Crazy retorted. "And those people at that web site are --"

"Sane?" House paused for a beat as he started twirling his cane around. "Let me put it this way. Number one – a deaf woman is deaf. She is not a selective hearer; she can't hear at all. Number two – pretty singing boy is not perfect. He can't seem to keep track of what city he's in, much less his personal issues. Number three – I hate all of you. I have read enough garbage on your little message boards to employ a psychiatrist for a year and/or write a best-selling novel." The ping of the elevator arriving on the main floor interrupted House's speech. The Crazies, who had looked ready to pounce on House a moment ago, now stared at each other in wide-eyed terror before making a beeline for the clinic doors.

"I guess they believed me when I said you had called the psych ward," House said to Wilson upon joining him by the reception desk.

Wilson said nothing, a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth as he pulled out his wallet and began counting out forty dollars.


End file.
